


Unconditional

by I_DDare_You



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, Christmas, Dog fic, Eventual Romance, John pet sitting, M/M, Multichaptered, Not AU, Sherlock On a Case, and Sherlock having to put up with it, and not liking it, and then slash later, pre 2x03, pre-slash at first, rating subject to change (E)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-29
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 00:13:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_DDare_You/pseuds/I_DDare_You
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Dogsitting. Ridiculous, dull, completely unnecessary and distinctly unsavory. He won't have it.' In which the exasperated Dr John Watson is called upon to look after a friend's dog and the world's only consulting detective endures slobbering and unwanted affections. From the dog, that is. It doesn't help that he's on a new case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Impressions

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on FF.net, but now posting on here as I'm going to be updating regularly. Rating will probably change to E, but I'm making it M just in case.

His finger slides easily along the thinnest string, towards the bridge and then back, up and back, up and back. Sherlock is well aware that this siren-like noise irritates John like no other, especially when he's playing on the E string and then finishes with vibrato on the highest note he can make. Which is considerably high. Especially at seven twenty-one on a Saturday morning.

 

And, of course, as he predicted, he hears John's feet thump on the floor above as he gives up on sleep and resignedly, angrily by the sounds of it, gets out of bed. Good. Sherlock is bored and if John gets up this early on a Saturday he will want to do something with the day, which means they will go out and maybe there will be something for a restless, bored genius to do. Unlikely but he is hopeful, regardless. It has been four days since his last case and already his experiments are starting to seem too minor, too insignificant and unsatisfying. He longs for puzzles, for something to latch onto and work on. _He needs it._

 

He draws the bow across E violently, in an outward burst of energy and frustration, his finger still poised near the bridge. The screech results in a loud curse from upstairs. Judging from the pitch, tone and duration, including John's predictable morning routine, he has cut himself while shaving. Sherlock wonders if it's possible to coordinate someone's actions, and to what degree, by using his violin alone. Plausible, certainly. The stick and carrot analogy and the bell and salivating dog experiment come to mind, and he concludes that the experiment is not worth his time as he is already certain of the results.

 

His lip curls upwards but before he can do anything else, there is a knock at the front door.

 

Sherlock springs to his feet, violin and bow lying on the chair instantly at the prospect of something new, anything currently unknown. He races to the door, knowing it won't be Lestrade, but hoping that it's anything, absolutely anything.

 

He flings the door open and he knows his eyes are wild and eager and he will frighten away whoever it is, but he doesn't care.

 

A man stands on the doorstep. An unknown man, a stranger. A simple, rather uninteresting puzzle doubtless, as normal humans generally are, but beggars can't be choosers.

 

“Afghanistan, highly ranked, Brigadier perhaps, wounded in action two years ago, likely leg – no: hip – trauma judging by the commanding yet off balance posture. Shadows under eyes, tired overall demeanour indicates sleepless nights. Slight downturn of mouth, hollowness of eyes, bloodshot eyes makes it obvious that it is due to nightmares; predictably symptoms of post traumatic stress disorder, common to soldiers. But lack of sleep not wholly due to this: uneven shaving, slightly wrinkled clothing and deodorant only, no cologne, paired with the way you flex your ring finger when under stress, as if uncomfortable with the wedding ring there for purely psychological reasons, is indicative of an unhappy marriage. It could be due to the emotional distress of your military experience and resulting mental illness but more likely due to your increasing discomfort with being around your wife after a long period apart, hence why you bought a dog fifteen months ago to satisfy your need for silent, understanding companionship that you miss and need. Labrador, naturally, appealed to your sense of needing to be healed as they are often perceived and utilised as a healing breed with quiet temperaments and few needs. Your wife does not approve of the dog, judging by the lack of hair on clothing above mid-thigh, except for the cuff of your sleeves where you pat the dog but it is not allowed to jump up. In conclusion, you are an old army friend of John's and have hit a rough patch with your marriage and are here to ask John if he might look after your dog for a short period of time while you attempt to salvage your marriage. Which is highly unlikely, by the way; she's just trying to think of a way to tell you that she's going to leave you and wants your remaining time together to be a happy time. Also, his answer is no; John does not have time to look after a dog or time to attempt to offer comfort to you and I do not approve of live animals in my living space.”

 

Sherlock finishes speaking and takes a refreshing inhale of cold air. The greying man before him gapes openly, speechless, but Sherlock is only mourning the fact that the man is no longer new and unknown to him and that he is bored again.

 

“Henry? What are you doing here?”

 

Sherlock huffs and folds his arms at the disbelieving voice coming from the stairs behind him. “I assume you didn't hear my more than adequate explanation, then.”

 

John gives him an exasperated, annoyed look and Sherlock thinks he detects a hint of warning there too. Obviously he _has_ heard his examination then and is only being sensitive to his old friend's current problems. How dull and bothersome.

 

“It's so great to see you. Come in!”

 

“I – err.” The man named Henry looks away from John and back at Sherlock warily as if he's a conjuration from his imagination. Sherlock has seen the look countless times and is beyond bored with it.

 

“It's alright, don't worry about him. He's always like that.” John explains and Sherlock glares at him. _I'm right here, you know_. “This is my flat mate, Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock, this is Henry Milford, my old mate... though I suppose you know that. Right, of course you do. But come on in, Henry, would you like some tea?”

 

“Uhh, yes, tea would be grand, thanks.” Henry flashes John a brief smile but still watches Sherlock warily out of the corner of his eye and Sherlock notices that he edges around him when entering the flat. He wants to snort but knows that it might offend Henry, which in turn would offend John and John is already in a bad mood. This bad mood could pose a threat for finding anything not-boring to do today, so Sherlock turns and marches up the stairs. He knows the two men are following and can practically feel their silent conversation about the odd flat mate going on behind his back, and he huffs again. Perhaps, at least, if John and Henry get to talking, he will find out even more about this man who he suspects suffered childhood trauma, which is a little bit less dull than the rest of the man. He has nothing else to do, anyway.

 

Sherlock sits by the window as John makes tea and sits across from Henry, in his armchair. The consulting detective notices that there are three cups of tea but John has put them all on the coffee table instead of bringing Sherlock's directly to him over by the window, and that the handle is pointing away from him. Most likely subconscious but still childish. John is still in a bad mood then. He sniffs and turns back to the window.

 

Henry and John prattle on behind him and he's stopped listening. Of course, his subconscious is still receiving the stimulation and taking in every word, which is annoying and a waste of valuable mind space, but he can't be bothered to stop it. He watches people walking on the street below and observes them, deducing their lives until it all blurs into one great irritating ball of predictable humanity and he violently wrenches himself away from the window. Then he realises it's silent and he looks over to see that John has left for the kitchen to make more tea, Sherlock's still untouched on the table, and Henry is staring at him.

 

The look is not angry; it's uncomfortable, confused and curious, but there's no anger. Sherlock had half expected the man to turn away – few can handle his scrutiny, he's found – but the man resolutely continues to look. Understandable, Sherlock thinks absently, like many military men, his strength is in confrontation and directness.

 

“How did you know... about all that stuff?”

 

“I am a consulting detective. The world's only. I observe, I see what is there and make deductions. It's not difficult. Beyond normal people, certainly, but that's hardly saying much.”

 

The man frowns, obviously aware that he is being insulted, although that's not necessarily Sherlock's intention, but then John is walking back into the room with two fresh cups of tea. He glances at Sherlock, silently telling him to be nice, and Sherlock turns away again, aware that he's assumed the stance of a petulant child but he doesn't care.

 

“So, Henry. Anything in particular you wanted to see me about?”

 

“I've already said that he wants you to look after his dog because his wife does not approve of the dog and he's trying to patch up a failed marriage – a completely futile attempt, as I mentioned. Tell him no and be done with it so we can go and _find something to do_.”

 

“Sherlock.” John says in a low warning. Sherlock can feel John's heated gaze on his back and he fights the urge to smile. Getting John riled up isn't difficult but it can sometimes produce amusing results.

 

“Ignore him. Go on.” John says quickly to Henry, voice tight in frustration.

 

“...Well, yes, I was actually going to ask you to look after my dog for a week or two. My brother's children are allergic and I was hoping to... sort things out with Charlotte... But you probably can't take him and there are places I can pay to take him, I just thought a friend would be better.”

 

“No, it's fine. I'll take him.”

 

Simultaneously but with very different emotions behind it, Sherlock and Henry exclaim. “ _What?_ ”

 

“I'll take the dog.” John says smoothly. “I've always liked dogs and our landlady won't mind if it's only for a week or two.”

 

As Henry gives his sincere, surprised thanks, Sherlock narrows his eyes at his blogger. The fair haired man is studiously not looking in his direction, lip curled up slightly at the corner, suggesting smug amusement and he is leaning forward in his chair. _Oh, so that's what you're playing at, Doctor John Watson_. He's pushed him a tad too far and now John is trying to teach him a lesson. How trite.

 

“I'll go get him now and I'll bring his things up. He's waiting in the car.” Henry claps John on the back in what Sherlock assumes is silent gratitude and bounds out of the flat.

 

“You're trying to teach me a lesson.” It's not a question and he allows some of his annoyance to creep into his voice, John smiling as he hears it.

 

“ _I'm_ doing a favour for a friend. _You_ are being a rude, inconsiderate git, as usual.” There is no heat in the words, in fact, Sherlock thinks he hears fond affection. Odd. But John has always struck him as odd, in his own way. Actually, John seems rather cheerful now that he knows Sherlock is going to be thrown out of his comfort zone in retaliation for being 'a rude, inconsiderate git'.

 

Sherlock eyes him carefully, eyes still narrowed. “You have not won anything. You may like dogs perfectly well when they are in the care of others but you're not thinking about the mess, the hair, the smell, the pathetic dependency, the barking, the dog's stupidity and the impracticality of looking after something with our unconventional lifestyle.”

 

He can see he's made John doubt himself a little at that ( _oh, that's far too easy to do_ ), but Henry is so obviously grateful and John Watson has his stubborn moments. They mostly happen when he thinks Sherlock is being a rude, inconsiderate git, so now must be the time for another of those moments.

 

“Maybe a dog would do you some good, Sherlock,” John just grins at Sherlock's withering glare, “They're therapeutic.”

 

“I don't need _therapy_.” Sherlock hisses angrily but before John can give him more than an amused, incredulous look, Henry is back and Sherlock winces at the sound of dog nails scratching on the stairs. But it's alright, because if Sherlock has to put up with a disgusting dog, then John has to put up with more experiments involving body parts in the kitchen with less complaints. They have a bartering system. Sherlock thinks that John isn't aware of it but that doesn't mean it doesn't exist.

 

Henry enters, arms laden with dog food, a couple of garishly coloured dog toys and a soft dog bed. Behind him is the beast.

 

Sherlock wrinkles his nose pointedly as it rushes towards John, tailing wagging enthusiastically and mouth agape in an idiotic way that might have been a grin, but Sherlock knows that dogs don't grin.

 

“This is Sam. He's eighteen months-”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes in disgust and cuts Henry off loudly. “ _Ugh. Sam_ the Labrador _._ Dull, dull _, dull!_ ”

 

Henry gives him an annoyed, hurt look but apparently he's already getting used to him because he simply turns back to John as he puts the dog's things on the chair. “There's a list of instructions there but he's an easy going guy, you should be fine.”

 

Sherlock was about to point out the incorrect use of the word _fine_ , but he was too busy grimacing at the way that Sam was receiving John's petting with inexcusable amounts of slobber. Henry glances at Sherlock again, but this time his face is worrying and apologetic.

 

“It's alright, isn't it? You don't look like you like dogs, I mean, I don't want to put you out or anything.”

 

“Oh, drop it. The dog's already here, the agreement is arranged. The politeness is just unnecessary and dull. Stop.”

 

“Right.” Henry says slowly, then looks back to John, his expression switching back to grateful and bright. “Well, I best be off. Thanks again... both of you, I guess.”

 

John walks his friend to the door, smiling and chatting, leaving Sherlock with the animal. He watches with narrowed eyes as it follows Henry until Henry fondly says goodbye to it and walks out of the room. Then it turns back to the room, sniffing along the floor, following invisible scents. Sherlock watches it with undisguised disgust. It is an ideal specimen for its breed, granted; it is average height and weight for a Labrador, its coat different shades of cream, turning to tan and its tail seems to be unable to stop wagging. It is obviously treated well, judging by its confidence and contentedness, but Sherlock confirms that Henry's wife dislikes it because it doesn't try to jump up on the furniture, its nails are obviously routinely clipped and it has been bathed more often than normal for a dog. But then, in the middle of Sherlock's reluctant observations, it looks up from its fascinated sniffing and spots the figure sitting in the chair by the window. Sherlock bristles at the look of excited adoration and leans back as far as possible as the idiot comes charging forwards, tail swishing and eyes twinkling. Before he's thought about it, he's calling out “John!” and winces at how the dog is getting hair and saliva on his knees and thighs as it dances around the chair trying to get to his face without jumping up. John appears moments later, while Sherlock is pushing the dog's face away and scowling at the way it licks his hands.

 

John's laughter wakes him up a bit and he quickly recalls the dynamics of pack animals. “Down.” He says firmly and deeply and, finally, the dog sits before him, still wagging its tail and obviously desperate to leap up and attack Sherlock's face, but the obvious order has worked and he remains seated.

 

“Well, what do you know. He likes you.” John grins. “Poor thing obviously doesn't have a clue.”

 

John pats his leg and the dog scampers over to him, eager for attention. Sherlock watches as John bends down to roughly scratch the dogs neck, beneath the collar and then behind the ears. Then the dog rolls its head back to look directly at Sherlock and he swears it is grinning at him smugly, victoriously, even, basking in John's generous attention. He glares at it and then quickly looks away, furious with himself for even thinking such ridiculous things. A dog couldn't possibly look at him that way or imply such thoughts; he is simply applying human attributes to an animal, which is something he considers ridiculous and pointless, and most certainly beneath him.

 

Luckily his phone vibrates, distracting him and he has it out of his pocket in two seconds.

 

**Lestrade: Arson, suspected murder. 9. Abbingdon Road. Be quick.**

 

Sherlock immediately leaps out of his chair and in three bounds he's grabbed his coat and scarf off their respective hooks.

 

“A case, John. _A case!_ Arson can be terribly predictable and boring but Lestrade claims it's a nine. Of course, that means little due to their incompetence and generally average intelligence, but it's _something_.”

 

“That's... great, I suppose. For you, anyway.” John straightens, frowning slightly. “What am I going to do with Sam?”

 

Sherlock, in the middle of pulling on his scarf, rolls his eyes and sneers. “I don't _care_ what you do with the dog. Just hurry up.”

 

“But I can't leave him here, he doesn't know the place and he'll destroy things.”

 

“Bring him then, I don't care.” Sherlock yells over his shoulder distractedly as he dashes out the door, mind already anticipating the prospect of a good puzzling murder. He's out the front door in seconds and waving down a taxi in another minute, brimming with energy and excitement. He barely notices as John appears behind him with the dog standing patiently at the end of a red lead. But then as he reaches for the door to the taxi, the driver holds out an arm to him.

 

“Oi, no dogs allowed in my taxi.”

 

Sherlock bristles with annoyance. That damned dog! He makes a silent vow to unleash the most inconvenient and disgusting (well, John would think so) experiments on his flat mate in the coming weeks in retaliation for such an inconvenience. But there are more pressing matters and Sherlock immediately slips into a role, before John can say anything. He unfocuses his eyes and unblinkingly turns to John.

 

“Oh, I've forgotten his jacket again and we don't have time to go back and get it.”

 

Through unfocused eyes, he can vaguely see John's bewildered expression, so he quickly turns to the driver to give John time to catch up. Really, he doesn't have time for this. Damn that dog.

 

He assumes a mask of bashful politeness, staring unblinkingly at the space above the confused driver's head. “He's my seeing eye dog and we're awfully late, so I forgot his identifying jacket. We are really very late and it's so important that we hurry, do you think you could overlook it?”

 

He doesn't need to hear John's low intake of breath and hiss of “Sherlock”, to know that John will hate the idea of doing this, but really, this is all John's fault anyway for accepting the dog. He surreptitiously reaches behind his back and takes the red lead from John's hand, noting the initial resistance, because he needs to make the lie more believable. He hasn't had time to prepare for this – he knows that someone who requires a guide dog would have to be in very odd conditions to ever forget their guide's jacket and he knows that they would certainly realise their mistake when there was no harness to hold onto, but it's the best he can do at the moment and his impeccable acting skills should see the lie through.

 

In his slightly blurred vision with unfocused eyes, he can see the driver is suspicious but obviously too conscious of political awareness to refuse him.

 

“Alright then, but keep him on the floor.”

 

Sherlock turns and slides his hand along the side of the taxi until he 'finds' the handle and pulls the door open. The dog clambers inside and Sherlock follows, hearing John mutter under his breath from behind him something about them going to hell. Of course, John is predictably suffering from a guilty consciousness, political correctness and other rather pointless things. But there is finally a new case and Sherlock ignores the world outside of his mind and simply stares unseeingly out of the window, his whole body thrumming with anticipation of work.

 

In fact, he is so consumed by the thrill of something to sink his mind into, he doesn't consciously note the furry head resting itself adoringly on his thigh. He also does not see the reluctant, fond smile on John Watson's face as the fair haired man looks away from the odd pair formed by the world's only consulting detective and the oblivious, absolutely smitten dog who has taken a shine to him.

 


	2. Edith Partridge

Sherlock gets out of the car and drops the blind act immediately. John hurriedly pays the driver before the man can say anything and already Sherlock is heading towards the crime scene, so intent on taking in the sight before him that he forgets to give John back the dog’s lead. Sam trots obediently at his side, dog’s breath escaping in clouds of white in the cold December air, matching the identical plumes streaming from the man beside him. Sherlock only notices the cold to ponder on the nature of the fire that Lestrade has called him for and the possible implications of its progression and development.

 

The apartment block stands tall and foreboding in its newly decrepit, ashen state. The fire has burst the windows from the pressure of the fire, leaving gaping black mouths sunken into the blackened walls of the building. Overall, it doesn’t appear to have been a bad fire – enough to pose a serious risk to the inhabitants but not enough to bring the building crumbling to the ground. Firefighters have finished their searches and a safe path to the scene of the murders has been roped out. Sherlock turns and spins as he nears the apartment, taking in the surroundings and determining the economically middle class area, occupied largely by people over middle age. There is still a small crowd of nosy, curious people milling around outside of the crime scene as they always do and Sherlock eyes them all as he glances around. He completes his spin as Lestrade reaches him, not far from the roped off section barring the scene of the crime.

 

“Three victims killed by the fire of the twelve people who lived in the complex. There’re signs of a break in and we’ve determined that the fire was started on purpose, with a lit rag and kerosene. What we haven’t figured out and why I called you… is that a dog?”

 

 “Excellent observation, Lestrade.” Sherlock drawls, mind already carefully cataloguing and processing the information gathered. “I see you’ve picked up a few observational skills since I last saw you. _Yes, it’s a dog._ ”

 

Lestrade presses his lips together and shrugs in resignation at the scathing sarcasm. “Alright, alright. No need to get so defensive.”

 

Sherlock has always hated the small talk and niceties that he’s forced to endure every time there’s a new case he’s called to work on. The idiocy the police force are so fond of spouting is usually easily deduced or irrelevant, therefore they are largely unnecessary in the preliminaries. Before Sherlock can say anything else though, he hears John behind him, murmuring quietly. “Nice, Sherlock. Be nice.”

 

He purses his lips and sighs loudly. But this will be over quickly if he listens, so he does. “Lestrade, give me details – _useful_ details. Names, age, enemies, etcetera, but please include any observations that you made when first arriving at the scene that may not be present now. Keep in mind that I said ‘useful’.”

 

“Look, no matter what I say, you’re not going to like so you might as well just head on up and go see the scene for yourself.”

 

Lestrade stands back and holds the tape up to let them through but Donovan appears at his side.

 

“What are you doing with a dog?” She wrinkles her nose at the uninterested Labrador who is sniffing his paws, her voice dripping with disdain and loathing as usual when greeting Sherlock.

 

“I’m looking after it for a friend.” John intervenes quickly and Sherlock narrows his eyes thoughtfully at how the shorter man has stepped slightly in front of him.

 

Interesting: defensive, protective and most likely a sub-conscious posture. From the first night, and even before then, after John had literally killed for him, Sherlock had known that the man was very protective; naturally as he was a doctor and a soldier. But the implication that he also seeks to protect Sherlock not only from physical harm but also from scathing words and ignorant, cruel people such as Donovan, confuses Sherlock. He knows it’s his brother’s duty as older brother and to their mother to look after him, but John has no duty, not unless he’s acting on the duty of a friend. That someone obviously cares so deeply for him scares Sherlock a little. When he’s being honest with himself and, for once, actually willing to examine the concept of feelings and emotions beyond biochemical reactions, he thinks that John Watson does scare him a little bit. Because he’s nothing like he’s ever encountered before and it’s highly unlikely that he’ll ever encounter someone like him again. And that scares him because it forces him to realise that John with all his protectiveness and faith is truly unique, and that he must do everything within his power not to lose him.

 

Fortunately, Sherlock’s quick thinking doesn’t fail him even with displays of John’s odd displays of friendship, and he turns his attention to Donovan as she replies testily to John. “A friend actually asked you to look after a dog, a _live_ animal, when you live with _that_?” Sherlock merely smirks condescendingly at the indicative head jerk in his direction as she continues. “Anyway, friend’s dog or not, it can’t enter the crime scene; it’s bad enough that we already let you two in.”

 

“Excellent point, Donovan!” Sherlock exclaims exaggeratedly and claps his hands in a mock display of amazement. “The dog cannot enter a crime scene so it can remain here with you. I’m sure you’ll get along splendidly, you’ve got so much in common.”

 

She is so surprised that she unthinkingly grasps the red lead that Sherlock has thrust into her hands. In the blissful absence of her irritating voice, he ducks under the police tape and is followed by a bemused John. Lestrade gapes uncertainly for a second at the leash in Donovan’s hands before he shakes his head and mutters quietly to her. “It’s not for long, just go with it, please.”

 

Sherlock grins in the crisp December air and sets off towards the roped pathway inside the apartment block. He calls back over his shoulder, his voice factual with a hint of smug. “Oh and you may want to be alert for signs that he ‘needs the toilet’. I believe it’s now illegal to leave dog faeces in public places so you will have to pick it up.” He listens for and hears Donovan’s indignant cry of, “I am a Sergeant, not a bloody dogsitter!”, and his grin widens further as he enters the building, the sound from outside dimming as he does.

 

The air is thick with the smell and taste of smoke, soot and underlying chemicals released by the presence of fire. He gazes around the entrance of the building, noting the melted, cheap intercom and the remains of fake security cameras alternatively melted to the ceiling or in a twisted mass on the floor. The black stains on the walls make the hallway incredibly dim but gives him a general idea of the progression of the fire, showing the dullness of the black and implying that the fire was indeed not incredibly intense, was started quickly and put out in a fair amount of time. He hears Lestrade approaching and then the man pushes past him, somewhat irritably.

 

“Right, follow me, then.”

 

They follow, Sherlock noting everything around him, eyes wide as he drinks in all the possibilities and scenarios. There are details that the police have obviously missed but Sherlock is interested because he thinks that even the police have detected another layer to this case that raises it above typical arson and is the reason it was rated 9 in Lestrade’s opinion.

 

Up two flights of stairs and they enter an apartment. It appears that this is where the fire started and Lestrade confirms this, saying that they think the occupant was the intended original victim and that the fire was just to cover up evidence, although they don’t know anything about _why_ , which Sherlock knows they so rarely do.

 

Sherlock steps carefully into the room, making sure his feet are precisely placed, even though the fire, water damage from the firefighters and the police footprints have rendered any attempt to conserve evidence almost useless. He steps lightly around the apartment, carefully examining the burnt, melted, warped remains of the possessions of the occupant. Before he’s even looked at the body, which is before the small Christmas tree in the lounge room, he already knows a great deal about the occupant, although he decides to examine the body before he makes any further conclusions.

 

Lestrade and John watch from the doorway, similarly amused and feeling differing degrees of exasperation and amazement at the way he moves around the room examining everything. But when Sherlock moves to the small lounge room, Lestrade follows with John close behind. Sherlock can see immediately that his deductions from the rooms are perfectly represented in the body of the victim, lying before the sparsely decorated, burnt Christmas tree. He knows from her careful positioning that forensics has already examined her and that they have reached their conclusions about her fate, and that the corpse is there only for Sherlock’s inspection before it is taken away for further examination.

 

The room is silent beneath the creaking of the building and the sounds of the street outside. Sherlock bends to examine the body more closely. It is predictably charred and burnt but he still makes enough satisfying conclusions after a short amount of time. Without looking at the two men behind him, he absently announces his findings, as he would have done anyway had they not been there.

 

“Elderly woman, obviously, sixties to seventies, widower, survived by one child. No longer in touch with her son; a falling out likely based on the distribution of his father’s will, judging by the superior placement and more numerous sentimental objects associated with the father, rather than the son, and the general easy lifestyle enjoyed by this woman, despite the one photo of her son being old and faded, depicting him in clothing and a situation she approved of, rather than his present state. She was not notably social, with few close friends, but they are not of concern as she did not know her killer, although this certainly doesn’t appear to be a random attack as he seems to be aware of her routine and lifestyle.”

 

“Amazing. How…?”

 

Sherlock looks up at John’s familiar admiration but quickly returns his gaze to the body, feeling that odd, extra little burst of energy and conviction with John’s praise.

 

“It’s obvious, really. The door was forced open without concern on his part because he was aware of her hearing impediment and that she took the hearing aid off in the evening.” He waves a hand in the direction of the blackened curl of what used to be a hearing aid just poking out from between the crease of the burnt couch arm and cushion, his finger then pointing to the charred mess of what looked to be a blanket on the floor in front of the couch.

 

“She was accosted after taking her hearing aid off while crocheting the blanket, likely from behind, with a cushion across her face, as we can see from the small cuts at the corner of her mouth where the dentures were pressed abruptly against her mouth by the cushion, and the rather odd placement of the other chair’s cushion. He knew her schedule, also likely knew his way around the apartment, but the clinical, dispassionate nature of the murder indicates that he merely observed her to make the murder easier, but did not know her personally. Her son then is most likely ruled out, despite their falling out.”

 

“It is highly likely that the murderer is male by the apparent ease with which he subdued her and carried her over to the tree with apparent minimal effort. Also, with the way she’s been presented beneath the tree, a woman would have most likely been neater about it, with the obvious allusion to the body being a present, so she would have taken time to be more precise and neat about the presentation. When adding this to the skewed statistics of more numerous male killers, the killer in this case is therefore most likely male. Why the killer singled this woman out is more difficult, of course, and also why her murder is being presented so openly to authorities. She was laid before the underneath the Christmas tree carefully… not with reverence, no, but as a sign, _as a clue_. Oh, brilliant, _brilliant_!” He claps his hands excitedly and smiles widely as he spins around to take the room in again as a whole. “It’s a game he’s playing, ohh, these are always the best murders. Arson and asphyxiation, leaving a body under a Christmas tree, symbolic of a present – unoriginal, granted, but he’s saying something with what he’s done.”

 

Sherlock turns, takes a quick, small step, then turns again, takes a step in one direction and then turns back again, his excitement and intrigue building even as Lestrade and John stare silently at his sharp, uneven pacing.

 

“Yes, it’s a message! There were opportunities to have made it look like an accident. The execution is admittedly amateur, but the idea appears well developed. He’s used obvious accelerants and clearly murdered her instead of making it appear to be an accident, especially with her placement.”

 

He teeters over the body one last time, carefully taking in every detail he can of the charred, blackened remnants of the person named Edith Partridge, whose name he had seen on the only two Christmas cards blackened by smoke but not turned to cinders. Then he’s off, pushing past John and Lestrade, ignoring the latter’s protests and inquiries as he races down the stairs.

 

He steps outside into the biting air and waits for the other two to catch up, gazing around impatiently. Luckily, John and Lestrade appear soon and Sherlock turns to them, hoping that they grasp the plan quicker than they usually do.

 

“The fire does not appear to have been wholly necessary, which indicates an arsonist streak in the murderer. As in many arsonist cases and some murder cases, the killer returns to the scene after the act to blend in with the crowd and see the result of his or her work. Judging by the amateur nature of the execution of the crime, I think he is still here.” At this, John and Lestrade’s eyes widen and they look over Sherlock’s shoulder to look at the small crowd still loitering outside of the police tape. Sherlock bristles at their blatant staring and hisses. “Don’t look now! You’ll give it away. Now, just follow my lead.”

 

Without waiting for a reply, he turns sharply and quickly makes his way towards Donovan, still holding the red lead as she talks to a police officer. On his way, Sherlock sidesteps and scoops up a police jacket hanging from the back of a chair in an open police car. It’s rather too big but it will serve well enough and without looking, Sherlock tosses it back in the general direction that he knows John will be. He quickly takes the lead from the unsuspecting Donovan’s limp hand and gives no explanation, simply turning towards the small crowd and slowing his pace slightly for John and Lestrade to catch up. John appears on his left, wearing the police jacket and irately pushing up the overly-long sleeves, and takes the red dog lead when Sherlock hands it to him.

 

“We require a strong military presence. Doctor Watson, do you think you can deliver?” He keeps his voice low as they approach the crowd but his words have the desired effect as John nods and visibly slips into soldier mode. Sherlock glances at him interestedly as his posture stiffens, and everything about him almost instantly clicks into place. John the Captain was present now and Sherlock noted that the dog appeared to be aware of this new shift in pack dynamics, falling just behind John’s gait and following his lead. Perfect. Sherlock silently approaches the crowd from one end, fixing them all with a penetrating stare, noting the reactions and watching them carefully as John allows the dog to sniff enthusiastically at their shoes and knees. Predictable reactions – few people react well under such scrutiny and they crumble in the strong presence of someone who is so obviously professional and stern, accompanied by an objective animal with superior senses. They know that the nose of a dog won’t lie.

 

Sherlock doesn’t find what he’s looking for until they reach almost the other end of the small crowd.

 

The man is dressed to seem non-descript, inconspicuous but Sherlock sees the slight flicker of his eyes as he looks at him; challenging, resistant. Sherlock can see everything that the police are looking for but he needs more and, surprisingly, Sam the dog is going to do that for him.

 

Sherlock fixes the man with an unwavering stare, speaking so quickly that someone innocent wouldn’t be alert enough to pick up every word. “Where were you between the hours of twelve and two this morning? What are your reasons for loitering in this area? Why stay at a crime scene if only curious and yet keep glancing at your phone as if impatient for something? Why? Are you proud of this, of your handiwork? Is it thrilling or is it less; is it just a job? Are you waiting for more instructions from your employer? _What is it?!_ ”

 

Despite Sherlock yelling the last three words into the man’s face with the proven technique of surprise and ambush, he only leans back slightly, looking mildly bemused. Sherlock observes this interestedly and the man speaks calmly and confidently. “Look, officers, is it? I don’t know what you’re accusing me of but I can assure you…”

 

“John,” Sherlock cuts him off carelessly, indicating John to step closer, giving the dog a pointed look, hoping that John was having one of his more observant days, “See if Sam can pick up any traces of the accelerant used or the victim’s scent.”

 

John steps forward and Sam surges forward eagerly, sniffing at the man’s shoes, only interested in meeting new people and new scents but to the untrained eye, he appears to be earnestly sniffing for traces of the crime. Sherlock makes a very small, very sharp movement, so the dog looks up at him expectantly. Sherlock is aware of his ability to utilize the beast’s instinct for pack dynamics and gives him a dark, direct stare. As predicted, the dog sits at the man’s feet, obeying the silent display of power and wags his tail tentatively in acceptance of his place. To everyone else, it looks as if a police sniffer dog has sat at the feet of an arsonist after scenting the incriminating chemicals on him. There are murmurs and gasps and… there, resignation and fear in the arsonist’s face. He thinks there is no use denying it now, no fooling a police dog and he’s prepared to tell all now that he’s nothing left to lose and, more importantly, to make sure the _real_ people behind this go down with him.

 

“…Alright, listen: it wasn’t all me, okay? He paid me to do this, I was just doing a job.”

 

 Sherlock stares after him intently as Lestrade quickly moves to arrest the man and take him away for more private, professional questioning. He’s aware of the crowd murmuring and moves away before they start whipping out their camera phones and snapping pictures of the detective. John follows, his more formal soldier persona slipping away until it’s just John again, still a soldier but less likely to glare at a man for not calling him ‘sir’.

 

“How-how did you do that, back there? You didn’t even say anything and Sam-”

 

“It’s excessively simple, John.” Sherlock replies as John hurries to keep up, Sam trotting at his side. “An air of dominance or power will cause an animal either to challenge or submit; this dog, naturally is more inclined to accept the lower position and simply sat to show his lack of resistance. He did the same for you when you adopted a more dominant persona, the control is mostly sub-conscious and it works even on the humans around you as you could plainly see from the crowd.”

 

John shot him a quick glance and didn’t reply. Sherlock frowned. That was an unusual response, as was the glance – he couldn’t deduce the feelings behind the glance because there were too many mixed and jumbled. Such an untidy place, the human emotion pool. However, he doesn’t dwell on it as he has the task of texting Lestrade at least twice every five minutes to make sure the interrogation is done quickly and the extent of this man’s involvement is known. Sherlock knows this is much bigger than it appears at first glance and that this is not the end of this. Who exactly employed this man to do this and why? So far as he can tell, which is actually rather far, this woman had nothing sinister about her and Sherlock feels that the one hired to kill her is too amateur and unprofessional for it to be a routine assassination of someone who is trying to send a message to her friends or family. Whoever hired the killer wanted them to catch him, wanted them to get closer to him. As Sherlock’s mind delves further and further into this increasingly intriguing case, it becomes clearer that this is all part of a game.

 

They are already making their way back to the main road in search of a cab and Sherlock’s phone is already in his hand, thumbs hammering an exasperated text to Lestrade about the sheer amount of time wasted by-.

 

“He did come in handy after all.”

 

Sherlock glances up briefly at John and huffs irritably as he realizes John is referring to the dog. “It could have been done without the dog; he merely provided a faster route.”

 

“Well, he’s fond enough of you. Who knows, maybe you’ll find he has his uses after all and you might actually come to like him once he’s around for a bit.”

 

John expects a sigh, perhaps a sneer or a dismissive remark, but Sherlock simply gives him an odd wide-eyed searching look before pursing his lips and hastily waving down a cab. Well, if Sherlock’s previous little speech on dominance had caught John a little off guard before for rather unprofessional reasons, then somehow, John had just managed to shake the unflappable Sherlock Holmes without even knowing how.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think so far! Comments are my world!

**Author's Note:**

> I hope my characterisations are not too inaccurate but goddammit, trying to make deductions like Sherlock Holmes is so much fun. Incomparable, of course, to the better writers, Moffat, Gatiss and Doyle himself, but incredibly fun, nonetheless.
> 
> Reviews are cherished and kept in jars of formaldehyde in my fridge, in true Sherlock style.  
> Thank you for reading! Next two chapters are already written so they'll be up soon.


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